


pillow fight

by macha



Series: Georgia on My Mind [27]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-07
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:52:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macha/pseuds/macha





	pillow fight

_

### B05 DragonHorde Wars:  
in the hoard, we are harvest.

_

and the name of the tale is:

### pillow fight

he came too late to the battle. everything moving was a predator. but so was he.

he felt them there, before he saw them. turned, in a complex manoeuvre many enemies had fallen to. but they were not his to claim. he knew that now.

"playing the Three Fates tonight, are yez, ladies? spin, weave, and cut: would this be the expurgated version?"

"not tonight, darling. i have a headache."

"although, check it out. we spin."

and she spun, just for a moment, into her battle dance. for fun. gods, how he loved her still, when he could see the maiden hunter. not his.

"we weave."

and he knew it in his dragon bones. he'd seen those tapestries. she'd go on mothering this girl she hoarded, and all the dynasties she nurtured, that he could never find. he hardly knew her. though he'd like to. not his.

"we cut."

for a moment, she showed herself as she'd always seemed to him, in white, and carrying a scythe. lady of death, untouched by time. good role for her, as his private parts remembered. he knew her well. also not his. he had a moment of what might have been regret. couldn't he pick them, though.

"just turn your back, ColdBoy, we're dressing."

"in the company of the likes of you?"

"indeed. unless you want to join the harvest?"

"but maybe you do."

thought of not turning. why should he yield to them? they offered only judgment. not his. still in the end he turned. he knew why. and he hated knowing.

he wasn't done. he wasn't.

and behind him there was light, so intense he could hear it, taste it, smell it, even with his eyes shut tight. for a moment he thought that even the scales of his armor might be melting. but when he turned again to see, in the half-light that lingered after the blast, there was no one there. not even the dead. one feather drifted down, like the aftermath of a pillow fight. the battlefield had been stripped clean. and so had he.

he raised the broadsword defiantly above his head, shouting "you cannot own me". there was a tinkle of laughter. a hand he almost recognized came out of the ground/sky and grabbed the sword, and took it under/up. not his.

"I will start again", he howled, unarmored.

"we know," another well-remembered voice remarked, already fading. was there pity in it? "we know you will."


End file.
